“It’s fine.” I kiss him quickly on the lips.
“Take a muffin with you!” my mom calls.
She finally leaves at one to get to her two-o’clock Bikram yoga class. I have somehow managed to sit on the couch with her for three hours and put off making any decisions about the wedding. No matter what she asked or suggested, I remained noncommittal.
“When you were planning your wedding to Hugh, you wanted fuchsia bridesmaid’s dresses. You don’t still want that color do you?”
“Not really.”
“And you’d planned to be married at Saint Matthew’s United. I know that was really to please your father and since he’s so distant these days, I think you should choose a venue that you and Sam are comfortable with.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Shall we use the same guest list we put together when you were going to marry Hugh?”
“Maybe . . . for family, anyway.”
“Fish or chicken?”
“How about both?”
The conversation went on in that manner until I finally said, “Look, Mom. I don’t feel comfortable making any decisions about the wedding without discussing them with Sam first.”
“You’re probably right,” my mom said, snapping the thick glossy magazine in her lap closed. “It’s his wedding, too.” She paused, looking at me seriously.
“What?”
“You’re a very lucky girl, you know. He’s a real catch.”
“I know,” I said somewhat defensively.
“He’s so handsome and successful and loving.”
“I’m aware of that, Mother,” I said. I couldn’t help but hear the words left unspoken: “And you’re so unstable, in a dead-end career, and pear-shaped.”
But by the mercy of God, she left before I could say something that might destroy our relationship forever. Thank goodness she isn’t about to let the aging process begin again by missing a yoga class.
I flip listlessly through the magazines my mom left behind. All these thin gorgeous beaming models are so phony. They are obviously not real brides! Real brides have worry lines on their foreheads and stress induced acne. They feel nervous and slightly panicked, full of doubt and insecurity. At least that’s how I’m feeling. I wish Sam were here. He seems so happy and excited. I need to talk to him to allay my concerns. On cue, the phone rings.
“Hey, babe,” Sam says cheerily. “Is your mom still there?”
“No, she finally left. Thank God!”
He chuckles. “Well listen, hon, it looks like I’m going to be tied up here for quite a while. These investors seem pretty serious and they have a lot of questions.”
“No problem,” I say lightly. When we were together before, I would have resented being left alone on a Sunday. I would have fretted and worried, wondering if he really needed to be there, or would just rather be there than hanging out with me. But now I am his number-one priority. We are engaged. He wants to spend the rest of his life with me! What’s one afternoon apart? “I’ll see you for dinner, then?”
“Well . . .,” he says tentatively.
“What?”
“Robert wants us to take them out for dinner tonight. But if you don’t want me to go, I can make an excuse.”
“No . . . go ahead.”
“You’re sure? Because I meant what I said, Kerry. You’re more important to me than anything else.”
“I know, Sam,” I say gently. “It’s okay.”
“I love you, Kerry. I’m so happy we’re getting married.”
“Me, too.”
“I’ve got to run. I miss you and I love you.”
“Love you, too,” I say, before hanging up.
At work the next day I can’t concentrate (not that that is anything new). I am relieved when Trevor invites me for a latte. It will save me from staring at the post-campaign analysis I am supposed to be writing for the Prism ads. So far I’ve written:
The Fall Prism post-campaign analysis indicates . . .
But all these research numbers are like the Russian alphabet to me. As soon as I look at them they seem to swim before my eyes and my mind starts wandering. Besides, why does Prism need a post-campaign analysis a month and a half into the campaign? Doesn’t post mean “after”? This was Sonja’s stupid idea.
“So how was your weekend?” Trevor asks when we are sipping our coffees.
“Interesting,” I say.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’m getting married.”
“What?” Trevor lets out a high-pitched scream. “To who?”
“Whom.”
“Shut up, you bitch! Are you really getting married?”
“Well, Sam proposed on Saturday.”
“Sam? I thought you two were over.”
“So did I, but apparently he’s been pining away for me for weeks. He’s been phoning my mom and everything.”
“Wow.” Trevor is silent for a few moments. “Wow,” he says again. “Did he give you a ring?”
“Yeah. It’s really beautiful.”
“Where is it?”
“Oh . . . it’s being sized,” I say sheepishly. I don’t know why I couldn’t bring myself to wear the ring today.
“Are you happy?” Trevor asks, reading the troubled look on my face.
“Yeah . . .,” I say hesitantly.
“You don’t sound very happy, Kerry.”
“I think I’m in shock,” I say with an awkward laugh. “Like you said, I thought Sam and I were over.”
“And what about that Nick guy?” Trevor continues the inquisition. “You seemed really into him?”
“Nick?” A loud, forced laugh erupts from within me. “We were just friends! Barely even friends, actually . . . more acquaintances. I’ll admit I thought he was cute and supernice and everything but . . . I barely knew him! Jeez!” For some stupid reason, my eyes feel on the verge of welling up.
“Well, if you’re happy, I’m happy.” Trevor leans over and kisses my cheek. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” I say mistily. “But can you do me a favor?”
“Oh!” he says clapping his hand to his chest. “Do you want me to be your maid of honor?”
“No! I mean, maybe, but that’s not the favor.”
“Okay.”
“Can we just keep this between us for now? I’m not ready for everyone at work to know about it.”
He eyes me suspiciously. “Are you sure you want to do this? You guys have a pretty rocky past.”
“I’m sure,” I say, patting his hand reassuringly. “He’s changed.”
At four o’clock I call Sam. “Tonight’s the Prism Christmas cocktail party,” I tell him with a heavy sigh. I am finding the thought of schmoozing clients more and more repulsive. “It starts at six, but I should be home by about ten.”
“I’ll catch up on some work and meet you at your place,” Sam says. “Call me when you’re leaving.”
“Okay. See you in a bit.”
“Kerry?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I say, and hang up the phone. Gee, Sam is really sweet and loving now that we are engaged. I need to shake off this nagging feeling that the current state of our relationship is transitory. I will push all this doubt and insecurity into the farthest recesses of my mind. We’re getting married, for God’s sake! I should be filled with joy like Sam is. Like my mother is.
The Prism Christmas butt-smooch is being held at a martini bar in Pioneer Square. When I arrive, Sonja is already there holding court as if she owns the place. She is dressed in an attractive, winter-white pantsuit and looks positively regal. Gavin is standing beside her, ever the faithful court jester. As I head to the bar, I notice Dave lurking in a dark corner. Although he is a despicable human being, we do have one thing in common—we hate all this phony, schmoozy stuff.
With a martini in hand, I chat amiably with some of the Prism clients. They are all fairly nice people, but they seem
obsessed with work. As hard as I try to steer the conversation toward Christmas or shopping or New Year’s celebrations, it always seems to come back to their bloody jobs. It is sickening. I’m beginning to feel my brother has the right idea. Am I too old to be working at a bar all night and hanging out at the beach all day? Hmm . . . maybe not too old, but probably too fat in the rear-end area.
My reverie is interrupted by Dave. “How’s it going?” he mumbles as he sidles up beside me.
“Great,” I say through gritted teeth. “This is so much fun.”
“I hear ya,” he chuckles. “I hate this kind of thing. I’d rather be cleaning the fridge in the lunchroom.”
“I’d rather be cleaning the toilet in the men’s room.”
He laughs again. “Oh, Kerry,” he says with a sigh. “I’m glad we’ve been able to put the past behind us.”
I raise my eyebrows. I am about to point out that it is a little hard to forget that he tried to have me fired, humiliated me in front of my coworkers on numerous occasions, and sexually harrassed me in a spooky darkened stairwell, when Sonja calls for everyone’s attention.
She is standing on the small stage where a jazz band plays on weekend nights. Ting ting ting. She taps a spoon against her martini glass like she is at a wedding. “Excuse me everyone,” she says. “I’d like to say a few, quick words. Don’t worry! I won’t keep you from your drinkie-poos too long!”
There is a smattering of polite laughter—except for Gavin, who looks like he’s about to pee his pants from the hilarity of the word drinkie-poos. I must forcibly restrain myself from rolling my eyes. Dave nudges me and indicates my empty glass. “Sure.” I nod. I could definitely use another drink.
Sonja launches into her speech. “It’s been quite a year hasn’t it?”
An affirmative murmur emanates from the crowd. Gavin says loudly “You can say that again, Sonja!”
If she actually says it again, I will throw my empty glass at her.
“Anyway,” Sonja continues. “Two thousand three has not been without its challenges, but I think we’ve really come together as a team! And speaking on behalf of everyone at Ferris and Shannon, we feel privileged to be working with all of you at Prism, the best damn clients in the world!”
“Woo hoo! Yeah! Yeah!” Gavin hoots. Even Dave and I are pressured into clapping and cheering. It would be really obvious if we didn’t.
“So I wish you all a wonderful holiday season and we look forward to starting 2004 with a bang!” she continues. Gavin leans in and whispers something to her. Sonja nods. “One more thing everyone, before we get back to the evening’s festivities . . . I’d be remiss if I didn’t take this opportunity to make an important announcement!”
Hmmm? What could it be? Let me guess—Gavin is being promoted. Or Sonja is being promoted. No—she’s not likely to make an announcement about herself. Let’s see . . . Janet is being promoted or—?
“Kerry? Kerry Spence? Could you come up here for a moment?”
No! No! Oh, my God! What is she going to do to me? What is she going to say? Surely even Sonja is not cruel enough to fire me in front of clients and coworkers at a Christmas party?
“Come on, Kerry,” Gavin calls in a teasing tone. “Get up here.”
I move numbly through the crowd, trying to keep the intense anguish I am experiencing from showing on my face. Soon, I am standing between Sonja and Gavin. This is too horrible for words. I swallow loudly, trying to dispel the huge lump of fear in my throat. “Don’t start crying,” I will myself. “No matter what she says, don’t start crying.”
“A little birdie told me a secret about you,” Sonja says in her singsongy voice.
Uh-oh. Does she know I’ve been spending approximately six hours a day drinking lattes, sending personal e-mails, and talking on the phone? Who told her? Has Gavin been spying on me? I shoot him a look. He smiles back like the Cheshire cat.
“Everyone!” Sonja calls to the crowd. “Please join me in congratulating Kerry on her engagement!”
Everyone applauds, and Gavin kisses me (of all the weird moves). I blush a deep crimson but smile gracefully. Trevor is soooo dead! It was obviously he who leaked word to Gavin. “Thanks. Thanks,” I say lamely. “That’s very kind of you.”
“Let’s see the ring!” one of the drunker Prism gals calls out.
“It’s . . . uh . . . being sized,” I respond, blushing an even darker hue than before.
There is a moan of disappointment at there not being a big rock to ogle, and I take this opportunity to slip back into the anonymity of the crowd. I find a spot near the back of the room and heave a sigh of relief. I can feel normal color slowly returning to my face. Suddenly a blast of cold winter air hits me, and I turn in the direction of the icy gust. The exit door is banging shut behind Dave.
Chapter 26
As always, Trevor had an excuse for his actions. And as always, I forgave him.
“You were having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that you were actually engaged,” he said, his handsome face pleading for forgiveness. “I thought that by getting it out in the open, it would make it more real for you. That way you’d be able to start dealing with it sooner.”
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. “So, this wasn’t just about gossip too good to keep to yourself?”
“No!” He was aghast. “I did this for you, to help you.” He grabbed my hands. “Besides, you know I’m great at keeping secrets.”
Before I could respond, one of the VPs walked by my office, and we were forced to start murmuring “Yes, yes, totally shifting the paradigm.”
I hate to admit it, but Trevor’s plan has sort of worked. Now that everyone at the office knows I’m getting married it has forced me to deal with the eventuality of it. My coworkers (the female ones, anyway) are constantly barraging me with questions about receptions and bridesmaids and caterers and divorced parents at the wedding. . . . It is practically impossible to think of anything else. So I am wholeheartedly embarking on discussions about toasts, first-dance music, gifts for guests, wedding cakes, buffet versus à la carte . . .
“Gee, Carole, I think ‘Angel’ by Aerosmith would be a great song for our first dance. Very original.”
“Portable cameras on all the tables is such a cute idea, Laurie! Thanks so much!”
“Well, Sue, I hadn’t thought about burning CDs of all our favorite songs to hand out to guests, but it’s an excellent idea.” Not to mention illegal.
I have adopted the role of blushing bride—although, the blushing is more to cover up my awkwardness than from joy.
I am even wearing the engagement ring most of the time. It’s a beautiful ring: a carat and a half, emerald-cut diamond in a platinum band. It’s very beautiful and very big. It even looks good on my larger-than-average hands. But just because it’s very big and sparkly doesn’t mean that it’s showy or ostentatious. So why do I feel so exposed when I wear it? Like everyone is staring at this huge, Ivana Trump kind of rock on my finger? It seems to scream, Look at me! Look at me! I’m getting married!
I am not a normal woman.
Part of me thinks I should discuss this with my therapist. She could help me work through these reservations. Although, would she really help me to get over my doubts? Or would she try to talk me out of this marriage? She knows more about my relationship with Sam than anyone. She will think I am a masochist to want to marry someone who has put me through so much anguish!
“Did you not learn anything from your diary of past encounters with men that may be contributing to your current negative and dysfunctional quasi-relationship?” she would say, voice calm but tinged with disappointment. “I do believe Sam was the main character in entry number two, was he not? Have you forgotten about him dumping you shortly after your wisdom teeth were removed? And what about Jasmine? Have you forgotten her, as well? May I suggest you commit yourself to a high-security facility for the mentally deranged, where you can work on developing a backbone?”
I just c
an’t shake the feeling that my therapist will be extremely disappointed in me. I think she is very skeptical by nature. She will not believe that Sam has changed and become a kind and caring man who puts his fiancée first above all else. It is better not to risk bringing it up with her. I don’t want any negative energy.
On the bright side, I’m not thinking about Nick anymore. Well . . . I’m not thinking about him much . . . not very much anyway. I was really upset and conflicted at first, but then, by dealing with my emotions in a straightforward and truthful manner, I got over it! I realized that it would be stupid to pine away for what might have been, when what might have been may well have been nothing at all! I mean, for all I know, Nick’s interest in me may have been strictly platonic, just friendship, or even less. In fact, he probably just felt sorry for me, as it must have been terribly obvious that my life was meaningless, empty, and unfulfilling. Being so kind and caring and giving, Nick was probably powerless to refuse the invitation to my mother’s vegan Christmas open house. Therefore, when he saw me accept Sam’s proposal, he was probably relieved! By repeating this theory to myself every time he pops into my head, I’m starting to feel a little less morose about him.
Anyway, now I am throwing myself into Christmas. It has even afforded my mother a distraction from the impending wedding plans. She is frantically knitting Sam a vest made out of hemp yarn.
“I think the natural color will really look great on his olive skin tone. Or do you think I should have it dyed? There are a wide variety of vegetable dyes available that are nontoxic and not harmful to the environment. What do you think? Perhaps teal would look nice with his dark hair?”
“Stick with the natural color,” I say, because Sam is slightly more likely to wear a beige hemp knitted vest than a teal one. Does she not realize he is a businessman who wears dark suits to work every day? I’m sure the wealthy investors from Hong Kong wouldn’t expect their Northwest liaison to turn up at a meeting wearing a teal hemp vest! Or maybe they would? I suppose hemp vests would be considered more casual wear, anyway. But quite frankly, I’m not a big fan of men in vests—hemp, teal, or otherwise.
The Journal of Mortifying Moments Page 21
